


look at me

by lvciens



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Angst, Everything Hurts, M/M, even the sex is sad, harry and peter can't stop forgiving each other, it doesn't end well, this is horrible and sad and i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2551892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lvciens/pseuds/lvciens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Harry implodes in on himself because he’s always been able to hate so easily, he’s always been the one to scowl from the corner of the playground or sneer from the back of the room, but he’s always told himself that love was a game of politics and that it always ended the same way, with one person getting the upper hand over the other, and here he was out here proving himself right, as he always knew he would.</p><p>He just wishes it hadn’t been Peter who confirmed it, but he’s thankful nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	look at me

**Author's Note:**

> this is essentially just a few different chapters in peter and harry's lives that i really wanted to experiment with, and it also might just be an excuse to exercise my harry-is-peter's-first-everything headcanon, but details, minor details.  
> this is also horribly sad and i advise against reading it entirely. go outside and eat ice-cream. be kind to yourself.  
> no wait i changed my mind please read this it's essential to my pride and that's more important than emotional stability.

Peter’s six years old when his face is red and blotchy and his eyes are streaming with salty tears, pudgy fingers clasping onto the angry red scrape on his right knee. He’s not even crying, he’s surpassed that long ago, he’s shrieking, _howling,_ and it’s the kind of cry that teacher’s are warned about in college, because there’s no putting a stop to it.

 

An awkward circle of bewildered first-graders has formed around him, and teachers hover in the background with their hands poised and ready to help but without knowing _how_ to, and the scene is practically frozen, which is oddly fitting considering that the next thing that happens is a short blonde boy steps forward from the crowd and ruptures the little circle of confusion. 

 

Him and his overpriced sneakers waddle over towards the crying boy on the playground floor and he stands there for a few seconds before he shoots a hand out, fingers straight and businesslike in the way that he’s always known.

 

Peter looks up at him through tear-soaked eyelashes and he pries a hand away from his throbbing knee to grasp onto the one in front of him, but his eyes are still squeezed together and he continues on with his pained howl.

 

The other boy sits down beside him and by now the teachers are starting to usher the other children away, urging them to stop _staring, you know that we don’t do that._ The loss of the crowd reduces Peter’s wails to small, pitiful sniffs, his little body’s trembling and jerking with the pain that it hasn’t had time to get used to and learn to deal with yet, that’s all yet to come, and the boy next to him is still sitting by his side with their hands clasped.

 

Peter still hasn’t opened his eyes.

 

“It’s okay.” The boy says, and he has a very quiet voice. “They’re all gone now, you can open your eyes.”

 

But Peter doesn’t want to and he shakes his head, preferring the darkness over the prospect of having to look at his new injury and facing the agony of a bandage.

 

The boy peers over to see Peter’s face, blonde hair that will darken over time falling over his bright blue eyes as he checks to see whether the others have opened.

 

“You don’t have to look at your knee,” he says “It’s not even that bad, I promise. Just look at me.”

 

Peter does then, peeking out in between his eyelashes to see whether the boy is actually there, or whether this is some sick joke that will get him looking head-on at the bloody mess on his leg. When he sees the blurred image of a face, he feels safe enough to allow the world to unfold before him again. The boy smiles at him. He’s not in Peter’s grade but he’s about the same size and shape as him.

 

“Are you okay?” he asks in his quiet voice, and Peter sticks a thumb in his mouth and nods.

 

“You’re not gonna talk?”

 

Peter shakes his head.

 

“I’m Harry.”

 

Peter’s eyes are trying to wander down towards his knee, to take a look, prove himself right that there was in fact reason to scream, to tear apart his wind pipe because his leg will probably have to be chopped off at the hip.

 

“Don’t look at it!” and the voice snaps his attention back up to the blue eyes that are wide and blinking and full of concern, and Peter barely even knows this boy but he’s already being nicer to him than all the other kids in first grade.

 

“Look at me, and you’ll be fine.” says Harry, and Peter nods.

 

He believes him. This is the wrong thing to do.

 

***

Peter’s ten years old and he’s crying again, only the graze has faded to a faint pink scar and the blonde haired boy stands in front of him with a suitcase in his trembling hands and an airport terminal burning into his back, and God, it’s just not _fair._ It’s not fair.

 

Harry’s trying to smile but he finds it’s not very effective when tears are spilling down your cheeks even when you’re trying to hold them back, and his throat is aching with everything he wants to say but Norman’s _right there,_ and Harry can’t cry now. He can’t. It’s not an option.

 

He wipes the tears on his jacket sleeve, and he doesn’t even give it a second thought.

 

“Hey,” he tries weakly, and Peter’s red-rimmed brown eyes are wide as they look up at him, because Harry’s still taller for now, still able to feel like he’s meant to be here for Peter, still able to protect him and take care of him now that Richard and Mary are gone, “It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna write to you all the time. You’ll be getting so much mail from me it’ll be flooding your house.”

 

Peter laughs and his smile breaks the pained mask that Harry hated to look at, and that it self is enough to make him smile.

 

“Like Harry Potter.” Peter chokes out, because he’s smiling but his tears are still filling his throat and chest, and he’s still heavy with the loss that hasn’t even happened yet.

 

Harry just smiles. “Yeah, exactly like that.”

 

And Norman’s looking at his watch but Harry still steps forward to bring Peter to his chest, holding him protectively like he always does, and he’s not sure how he’s going to be able to cope without having this scrawny kid around to worry about, but it’s going to be just fine, he’s telling himself, it’s not forever.

 

Norman doesn’t even try to hide his contempt when Peter accidentally lets out a broken sob against Harry’s shoulder.

 

“No, no, please don’t...” Harry pulls back to put his hands on Peter’s shoulders, gazing down at him and wanting nothing more than to run away from the terminal, the plane, the country, the _school,_ but instead he just looks at him with eyes full of worry (like he always does, like he always will)

 

“Peter, look at me. You’re going to be okay. I swear.”

 

Peter looks back up at him and he believes him, and that tears Harry apart because of course he’s _lying,_ and nothing’s ever going to be the same and it’s eating him alive that he probably won’t ever see this face again, won’t ever skip stones or climb trees or stay up late or talk to him again, and when he finally says goodbye and turns to enter the terminal he doesn’t let himself cry until he’s rounded the corner.

 

Peter can’t see him cry.

 

***

 

Harry’s sixteen when he comes home for summer break for the first time in years, and he’s only going to be in New York for a couple of days but that doesn’t mean he gets the courage up to go Queens until his last one, because he is an absolute ass.

 

May gushes over him and comments on how _dapper_ he’s looking, and how wonderful it must be in London and how lucky he must be feeling, and Harry nods and smiles and laughs but he can’t stop the colour rushing to his face and his mouth drying up when he sees _Peter,_ who’s peering from the doorway, hair a rumpled mess and limbs stretched out to gangly proportions, and he smiles at Harry because he’s not sure what else he can do, he’s hiding himself behind sweater-covered hands and he’s awkward and clumsy as he saunters into the room cautiously, and there are glasses that now sit perched on the bridge of his nose, and he’s the most beautiful thing Harry has ever seen.

 

They go down to the river where Richard used to take them, and he’d try to explain the physics behind skimming pebbles but he was never all that good at physics anyway, and regardless of what he said Harry could never quite get it and always ended up hurling great lumps of rock into the water in frustration.

 

They don’t touch the pebbles but they sit talking for a while and watch the ripples lapping against the shore, and it’s so constant and repetitive that Harry feels like he’s been sitting here for years when it’s only been an hour, and he nudges Peter’s hand with his own so that the younger boy opens his palm for them to intertwine their fingers. They don’t talk about it.

 

“I hate it there,” Harry murmurs “I hate the people, mostly. The school campus itself isn’t bad it’s just the... people.”

 

He’s not sure if Peter’s really listening but it just feels so good _talking_ to him again and the words roll off his tongue like they were the air he breathed.

 

“I can’t make friends there. I can’t. They all remind me too much of me. They all remind me of my _fucking dad._ ” He rests his head on his knees and he breathes and he breathes and he tries not to think about the fact that his self-control is slipping between his fingers.

 

Peter traces a circle on Harry’s hand with his thumb (he still knows how to calm him down). He pretends not to see the tears.

 

“I’m always gonna be here for you.” Peter says as quietly as when Harry first spoke to him almost ten years ago. “You don’t need them, okay? You’re always gonna have me. They don’t mean shit. They’re just... smarmy old assholes, and you’re better than that.”

 

Harry’s shaking his head because he doesn’t understand why Peter’s being so accepting, when Harry just let the received letters pile up on his bedside table over the years, and they never stopped coming, he got one every month and each one hurt more than the last, and he didn’t deserve the attention that he was getting from the boy next to him, didn’t deserve his fingers interlaced with his own, didn’t deserve his sympathy and his care when _he was supposed to look after him._

 

“I cut you off.” he chokes, and it’s more of a scolding remark to himself than anything else, “How can I be better than them if I did that to you?” and Peter’s stomach drops because he knows it’s true but he finds that he can’t blame him no matter how hard he tries, he can only inch himself closer and hook his finger under Harry’s chin and tilt his face over. Harry’s eyes stay to the ground.

 

“Hey,” Harry hears (it’s a breath, it’s a whisper on a wisp of smoke) “Look at me.”

 

He does and _oh,_ Peter’s lips press against his own in a perfect example of teenage hesitation, their hands running into each other and they both reach for different places, and Harry slides his fingers into Peter’s hair so he can pull him closer, and when Peter parts his lips for him Harry knows exactly what to do without knowing why, he feels like he knows exactly how he’s meant to kiss Peter and that the taste of confectionery and adrenaline is _meant_ to be familiar.

 

And he knows that he’s leaving the next day and none of this will even _matter,_ but for now it’s enough. It’s just enough.

 

***

 

Peter’s nineteen years old when his shaking hands find themselves upon Harry’s bare hips and he’s got red blotches all over his neck that he _knows_ will become blue and purple stains as a result of what’s happened here, with Harry fucking Peter on his old single bed in his aunt’s home that creaks every now and then from the weight, and it causes Peter to wince because _she’s gonna wake up and walk right through the door we forgot to close when you were pulling my clothes off._ Harry just sucks on his bottom lip until he can’t even remember what he was worried about when Harry’s lips are so red and swollen and he looks so beautiful with his hair messed and sticky with sweat and he’s got a look in his eyes that Peter’s never seen before, but he wants to see it forever.

 

Peter’s started whimpering and Harry’s leant down so that their faces are only inches apart, and their breathing is ragged and they’re both so _tired,_ and Peter wants to close his eyes and his head starts to tilt back, but Harry catches the back of his neck and pulls him back up and Peter softly traces his fingertips along the older boys thighs to remind himself of just how much he’s wanted this despite his exhaustion.

 

“Look at me,” Harry whispers, and their faces are so close that Peter feels his words against his lips “I want you to look at me.”

 

Peter can barely keep his head up but he keeps looking up at Harry, who’s now moaning after every second breath, who’s pushing his fringe away from his exhausted blue eyes, his hands shaking and his face creased, and suddenly Peter can feel fingernails dig into his chest and he sees Harry’s back arching and Peter watches him come undone with a quiet gasp right beneath his fingertips. And God knows Peter was spent _minutes_ ago, but watching Harry unravel on top of him with his head thrown back is almost enough to push him over the edge again while he grips onto his thighs, and he’s an angel, Peter thinks, he’s as sinful as the devil but he’s as holy as a seraphim.

 

Harry collapses onto Peter’s chest and _fuck,_ he’s never been more tired in his life but he’s so filled with contentment and ecstasy that he’d give up all the hours he saved for sleep, he’d throw them all away just so he could feel and see and exist with this boy who’s chest was rising and falling as rapidly as his own and who could almost kid him into thinking that things could stay like this. Peter pulls him up into his arms and holds him while they both try to catch their breath, and he runs his hand through Harry’s wet hair with his still-shaking fingers that only moments ago were clasping onto gently rocking hips while he moaned into his fist with tears in his eyes.

 

Harry’s lips graze against Peter’s collarbone and he’s whispering nothings into his skin, and it takes a second for him to realise that they’re not nothings at all, and he’s whispering “I love you I love you I love you I love you” because it’s all he can feel (and only God knows how much time he’s got left to say it).

 

Peter reaches out to brush the other boys face, and he feels like if he doesn’t keep touching him then he’ll cease to exist before him, and the words are on his tongue when his fingertips graze over a mark on Harry's neck that he doesn’t remember leaving.

 

“What is this?” Peter murmurs.

 

Harry feels his chest turn to lead.

 

***

 

Harry’s three months short of twenty-one when it happens.

 

His own blood gurgles in his throat as he tears at his skin, trying to _rip it, get it all off so that he can come crawling out of it,_ and his back is twisted and arched but it’s so different this time, and this isn’t pleasure he feels when his shoulders split apart, it’s his awakening, he’s dying but being reborn at the same time.

 

The night is frozen as it pulls and tugs at his face when he finds him, finds _him,_ and he feels so much hatred for him that he’s screaming and howling and laughing into the air, because he’s gonna _tear him apart._

 

Harry catches him in a moment of distraction and they’re grappling for minutes, and the masked man is being so gentle and it makes Harry hate him even more, it makes him hiss and claw at him and beat him into the earth.

 

“Come on and _fight me!_ ” he’s yelling, and his voice is so loud but it shakes with the fear that he can’t keep out of his mind, and there’s still an old part of himself in there pounding on his consciousness, begging for him to _stop,_ but his hands won’t let him and his knuckles are healing as fast as their bruising underneath the metal. “Aren’t you proud of what you’ve created? You did this to me! This was all you!”

 

The creature who did this to him takes another step back and he’ll only ever raise his arms to block the hits, and he’s shaking his head like the words are piercing his brain.

 

“I’m sorry,” and he socks Harry in the jaw in a weak attempt to knock him out so he can get out of here, but the metal won’t let him fall and he stays upright while his dying body fixes itself. “I never wanted this. I never wanted this to happen to you. Please, please, Harry.” And Harry can barely remember his own name anymore, he’s overcome with machinery and mutation and all he can do is snarl in return, because it’s all the same _shit_ he’s been told before, and it means just as much nothing as it ever has.

 

“You’re _lying_!” and his hand’s shoot out to grab a hold of the thin material that separates their eyes, and the voice beneath him shakes and cries and begs him _“No, no, no! Harry please!”_ but he rips it off anyway, and _oh._

 

Harry can’t yell, can’t even cry, he just stands there with the remnants of the mask in his hands and he laughs, and it’s the most horrible sound that pierces the night sky like a nightmare.

 

“All this time.” he breathes, and his soul is tearing itself to pieces and scattering itself within the deepest crevices of his body, and seismic tremors rock his frame that even the armour can’t control, and he implodes in on himself because he’s always been able to hate so easily, he’s always been the one to scowl from the corner of the playground or sneer from the back of the room, but he’s always told himself that love was a game of politics and that it always ended the same way, with one person getting the upper hand over the other, and here he was out here proving himself right, as he always knew he would.

 

He just wishes it hadn’t been _Peter_ who confirmed it, but he’s thankful nonetheless.

 

“Harry,” Peter whispers, and there are tears in his eyes but he makes no effort to wipe them away, and his body shies from the breathing corpse. “You know I tried to tell you. That it wouldn’t work. I had to keep you safe. Please, Harry, it’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

 

He makes his first mistake and he steps forward. “I’m going to make sure that you’re okay.”

 

Harry makes a clumsy grab for the dagger located on one of the mechanical compartments on his thigh, and Peter makes his second mistake.

 

He reacts too quickly, grabs the knife and turns it around in his hands just as Harry steps forwards. Plunges it straight into a small exposed section of mail that separated two of the compartments of the armour.

 

And at first Harry’s not scared, he’s going to heal himself and then he’s going to crush the life out of Peter’s throat, but something’s wrong, he realises with a pang, and he’s doubling over instead of straightening up, and his breathing is wet and filled with fluid and oh _God,_ Peter’s punctured his lung, and suddenly a brief flash of information returns to him from his father’s files, and images of mass-ingesting particles imbedded in the iron plating of newly developed weapons designed purely to kill flitter into his mind, and he hits the ground.

 

“Fuck. Fuck, Harry. Oh, God. Oh God. Oh God, oh God.” Peter’s pulling the knife out of Harry’s chest, and his third mistake is tossing it across the concrete because then the boy starts _bleeding,_ and his lungs are filling up with liquid and his own blood’s dribbling down his chin, and Peter’s watching it all happen and _he can’t do anything._

 

Harry remembers everything now, and he’s choking on the blood that’s rising in his throat but he can feel himself regain control over the last flickers of energy he’s got left as the wound devours his muscle, consumes him in an aching burn and tears leak down his cheeks before he can stop them.

 

Harry’s curled up around himself and Peter gathers him up in his arms and feels the warmth of the blood spilling onto his legs, and his body shakes because he’s not enough, and he can’t do this, and he can save everyone in the whole fucking city, he can pull people out from the paths of oncoming trucks or simply straighten the cap of a little-league player as he swings past, but here he is holding Harry in his arms with his blood on his lap with no way to stop it.

 

And he still hasn’t told him that he loves him, he loves him so much, but his lips are numb because he’s killed him, _he’s killed him he’s killed him he’s killed him._

“I’m sorry, Harry.” His hands are covered but the blood and tears burn him like acid. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Harry doesn’t want to hurt Peter anymore, that part of him has gone as quickly as it came and he feels it decay inside his rotting body, he just wants to touch Peter’s quivering jaw and tell him it’s okay, tell him he’s not angry, _thank him_ almost, because death has been on Harry’s mind since the day he came home, and what better way is there to die than by the hands of the one you can’t live without?

 

Harry’s hand is trembling as he wraps his fingers around Peter’s, but Peter’s staring ahead and he can’t snap out of the trance he’s starting to sink into, and he can’t move and he can’t _speak,_ and Harry’s still bleeding onto him.

 

“Peter...” Harry’s voice is wet with the fluid that’s filling his lungs, and he’s taking rattling breaths and God they _hurt_ , but he’s not finished yet. “Look at me, Pete. Please, look at me.”

 

He wants to see Peter’s eyes in death, because he’s seen them in so many other points of significance in his life, and it only seems fitting that he gets to see them now before he sees nothing else.

 

Peter doesn’t move and Harry whimpers in his arms.

 

“Please, Peter.” he sobs, _(he can’t breathe anymore)_ “Please, I love you. Look at me.”

 

_He’s killed him he’s killed him he’s_

 

Peter won’t look down and Harry’s vision starts blurring and fading and his hand slips back onto the ground, and so his eyes glaze over; wide, gaping, and he dies waiting. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> horrible. please make sure to leave some feedback or a kudos if you enjoyed this example of my inability to use fullstops in my work!!


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